


The (After)Life And Times of Gabriel, Archangel

by kalypsobean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 09:05:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gabriel dies, but that is not the end of his story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The (After)Life And Times of Gabriel, Archangel

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [spn_reversebang 2013](http://spn-reversebang.livejournal.com/) with art by the talented nrwendt, which you can view here at [deviantArt](http://zetsubou-no-girl.deviantart.com/art/Prone-428729426) or here at [tumblr](http://queerpanic.tumblr.com/post/74180937879).

This is how it ends: he trusts Sam and Dean Winchester with saving Kali because they have tried and failed at the task before him, and he walks into his own trap. He laid it out carefully, as soon as he knew Lucifer was inside, because he also knew that Lucifer would have sensed him, and there would be no escaping, no quiet and amicable departure, no more hedonistic pursuits and no resolution that would leave them both alive. 

He should have known when he saw the name of the hotel and remained in hiding, but there were things driving this mission that were beyond him; he could not leave Kali's fate to chance, or watch from the sidelines as Lucifer destroyed all in his path. He could not tell Sam Winchester to say yes and then allow the natural order to be sent off course by Lucifer averting Ragnarok.

 

Death is like a sharp, quick pain that ebbs and flows like an earthquake; his grace erupts and all is white for a moment, several moments, eternity, and then he wakes.

 

~*~

 

Castiel's favourite heaven was a park, a lake, a rock. His Father had created Eden in the form of a garden so immense it contained all life. It makes sense, then, that this would be the same and yet unquantifiably different. He is reminded of Narnia, and the way the children walked into the same world to find everything brighter and richer, but he would remember if he'd been through a portal; they twist and pull at you, and you come out still not right until you're oriented to the world around you and your place in it is assured and solid. He just woke up, no portals required.

This is when he remembers that he's dead, that his own brother killed him first, and there should be a gaping hole in his chest. 

"Well, it beats being tied up in a cave," he says, but his voice sounds alien and fails to carry, and there isn't even the sound of birds to answer him.

 

~*~

 

Gabriel was always one for the natural order, for things being the way they were meant to be and for right to always triumph over wrong. Before he left, he was the good soldier - went where he was told, did what he was told, fought with flaming sword and held the scales of justice in check. He was unhappy when there was no order, no rules; when Dad left to mourn his creations before their time, when Michael took over and the fighting started, he was miserable. 

He was the first to go looking, and the first to fail. 

It was easier to hide than return, and there were so many places he could have settled, but he chose one that was closest to who he was. The first rule of undercover, being to live a lie as close to the truth as possible, served him well, until the natural order pulled him back into his place as the family mediator; it almost broke him the first time, trying to make everyone just see the light that wasn't even reason, and this time it had killed him.

So this wasn't Heaven.

His Father always had a sense of symmetry - since there was a Heaven there had to be a Hell, and demons could walk among the humans just as the angels could. This, then, must be the opposite of Purgatory, kept such a secret because none ever returned, none ever entered alive, and so it must be empty of all but the dead.

It was not a comforting thing to realise.

 

~*~

His mind seemed to wake a bit later than his body and with higher thought came the recriminations and what-ifs that had plagued him before his final attempt at fixing what had always been broken. If only he'd never drawn the Winchesters' attention; what if he'd understood the warning before he faced down his brother; if he hadn't focused on all the outcomes and prepared only for the one... it was too late, for he was always a step behind the plan, even though the names of the prophets coursed through his mind and the Winchester Gospels were his second favourite choice of light comedy.

This was where his brothers doubted, chose their own paths, became weak and were influenced away from their trust; he had never wavered, even if he was the worst of the deniers. He had felt them turn away, lose their grip on the humans' beliefs as the factions divided their believers among themselves. He had watched and hid and kept true to his Father's purpose even though his guise was no longer the one he was given. 

As he thought, he felt an awareness come into his mind; he saw his own vessel lying undiscovered in a ruined and abandoned hotel, left undiscovered now that Mercury's glamour had worn off and the hotel no longer attracted even the most wayward of travellers. He saw Castiel struggle and lose his grip on Heaven, the last chance at unity and survival lost; he saw Sam Winchester fall and grief take hold of Dean in a way only death could release; he saw the beginning and the end of the world of humans and all life and he felt helpless to change any of it. He reached out in the way he had once touched the dreams of believers and felt himself trapped, unable to communicate or influence, and he screamed. The soundless power that he unleashed pushed the trees around him to the ground and warmed the air with an electricity that seemed to wrap around him and pulse until he collapsed, no longer able to will it remain outside of him.

 

~*~

 

The garden had changed when he woke again; he knew it was not of his making, for a path lay before him and he knew not where it intended to lead him. The trees had faded to brown and red, and the leaves fell around him even as if seemed that this world crumbled at its edges. The ground was black where he lay and his wings glowed gold, as if they had reformed and drawn all power within a mile's radius. The ground trembled beneath him, but he struggled to stand; this pain was new to him, in that it seeped through his body like warmth that made him tired and sluggish and his limbs heavy, each muscle overstretched.  
He ran as best he could, the ground falling away behind him until he was surrounded again by green leaves and unearthly silence.

So much for being bored, he thought, almost giddily; he did not want to know what happened if he died again, here.

 

The silence became unbearable again, soon; he took to shouting just so he could hear something, starting with swearing and pleading and finishing with prayers he put together from half-remembered fragments he heard either in the past or the future; he re-swore his loyalty and pleaded for a purpose, but still he could not touch the lives that ran parallel to his. He built a city from rocks and dirt only to tear it down, knowing that the walls would never hold anyone but himself, and he walked in the wilderness that seemed to change around him, almost as if influenced by the one who wielded the most power in Heaven.  
Stability was not Heaven's strong point, he realised.

 

Then the world faded and grew empty around him, and instead of company he felt only a great sense of loss, so overwhelming that he could not even fathom a concept to understand it; he could not see the below-worlds through the mist that replaced the garden. The path was long hidden from him, and he had no sense of direction or time to guide him.

For the first time, he drew on his own power and created a shelter in which to wait out the grief; he wondered as it formed around him in the manner he'd so thoughtlessly grown used to in the below-world. It shimmered through the air and settled, solidified, and brought him some measure of insulation. It allowed him to sleep. He could create food that would not be swept away by a silent wind. Yet, he found himself unable to find the path that had disappeared along with his surrounds; he was unable to feel a pull in any direction, even below, and he only heard cries of confusion and fear for they drowned out even the loudest prayers from below.

And so, he waited, perhaps impatiently; he redecorated and rebuilt, he tried to create some of the wonders of life and felt the twisting touch of despair as they failed to materialise and he remained alone. 

 

~*~

 

There were whispers once, barely rumours, that an angel will know they have fallen because they will be able to feel. He knows, with the benefits of ages of hindsight and this new sense that provides connections for him that he was never able to see, that it came from the followers of Lucifer, lured there by the pleasures to be found in humanity and taking the only way out that they were able to find. Here, he is unable to believe that it was ever so, though he has indulged more than most. There is nothing but emotion here; he can feel it overwhelming the below-worlds and he has his own to contend with - loneliness, regret, faith. If one truly had to fall to feel and understand emotion, then this place would not be able to exist; if there were no feelings to be hurt, his brothers would have obeyed and never turned their swords upon each other, and it would not have grieved him to the point where he was no longer able to watch. It occurs that the ability to feel was a tool given to the angels but that few of them understood enough to use it, to let their emotions inform them, to understand what had been made.

 

He finds the path when he opens his door to seek the sun that never shines or sets but casts an even glow that only waxes and wanes through the casting of shadows; it lies before his feet and perhaps always had, though he wonders if he was meant to listen to the cries of his brothers and realise his place before following it higher up and further in.

 

~*~

 

He remembers a time before Christianity, when religions were only divided by uncrossable barriers of speech and sea; he remembers fleeing among the persecuted and finding his own home in a dying pantheon where trickery had a purpose and myth lived on in fantastical and delightful excesses that lent themselves to disguise and intrigue. He remembers the fear that gave strength to his vessels before he found a martyr who would hold him and the grief over those who burned up from his presence. It echoes around him until he realises it does not come from himself, but that he is no longer alone; he is surrounded by his brothers who died incomplete and have not been able to retake their form.

He grieves for them for when he reaches out to them, their formless grace flits between his fingers and he knows from that that they are beyond saving, even in this world. This time he cannot escape the slaughter and soon the graces of a thousand angels float through the forest like a low-hanging fog; the trees grow dark and twisted and the path turns to ash beneath his feet as he walks without rest. He attracts them, he thinks, but he dares not turn them away.

He has hope that he can give them the strength to join him, but none ever do. Eventually, even the sourceless light cannot survive against them and the forest dims around him; the path is lit only by his wings and the unearthly glow of the fog-wraiths that are all that is left of his kin on this plane.

 

He reaches the end of the forest and finds a desert; beyond the desert he finds a sea; beyond the sea there is grass and a city that reaches up to the sky.

 

~*~

 

He remembers a time when he was able to divert a war between worlds. He asks himself what went wrong, this time, where had he failed where he had been so successful before? It was he who put all the pieces in place to take back Mjölnir from its grave on Jotunheim, he who arranged for Asgard to possess its finest treasures and solved problems even where he was blamed as their cause. 

He remembers how easy it was to change his shape, to become a silver falcon or just to change his guise just enough to pass unnoticed; he remembers how it began as an itch beneath his skin that forced itself out and settled over him like the tightest of nets. He remembers creating fire from his memories and giving it away where it would not have to be stolen or feared. He remembers the mistrust that he earned from leading two lives, and the way the future seemed to unfold before him even as he finally had to choose which family he could live within before they both fell to pieces around him. He remembers being left to roam on his own and carving out his own niche, creating others in his own image as they came from other pantheons to copy him and find their own place in this new world.

None of them wanted to be alone even as their powers dimmed through lack of prayer; in turn he learned to hide his own power behind tricks and mirrors until he appeared unassuming, no different to the others who passed as human and protected their existence like the greatest of treasures they once possessed. It was a community; he doesn't know what happens to them when they die, and it saddens him. They were friends to him, some were more, even when he made light of it and danced away as would a jester, as they expected of him and no more. He learned and practised and it still was not enough when as always, his journey took him back home.

 

~*~

 

The path takes him back under the sun, where even the fading cries of his brothers and human despair are overwhelmed by the heat. He watched a trial like this once, both long ago and only yesterday. All he has to do is keep walking and not allow himself to be tempted or distracted.

There were harder trials - ones that tested faith, tested strength, tested knowledge - this was a test of will, of concentration. He has created far more difficult tasks (he has a particular fondness for the time he forced Sam Winchester to abandon his brother to Death and accidentally created a perfect hunter) but this seems unending, and the city seems to move further away every time he rests. He creates a companion; he forms it from the dust and the air and he calls it Fenrir. It plays alongside him like a puppy and sometimes it runs ahead until it waits for him, a dot on a horizon that never comes to meet him; it curls into his stomach when he stops to rest, when the weight of sameness crushes his shoulders to the ground and he wonders whether any of his brothers before him had walked this path or if the city will be as empty as the desert and the forest before it, if pain and grief is all there is and no amount of prayer will provide solace enough from the loss. Even Fenrir cannot comfort him against that.

 

The next thing he makes is a boat; he heats the sand under his hands and forms it. He looks up at the sky and remembers flying, but it would not be kind to repay Fenrir by unmaking him now that his purpose is fulfilled. Fenrir jumps into the hull and doesn't poke his nose over the edge until the boat has reached the farther shore.

He pushes the boat back towards the desert, in case there are any who come after him.

He looks back, until the boat is out of reach, and then he steps into the plain, where the grass is cool on his feet but the air is harsh and dry. 

 

~*~

 

He reaches the city after days of walking, of thirst and introspection, and it resists his efforts to remake it. His buildings melt into the ground and even carvings he makes by hand are smoothed out by the time he reaches the far end. Fenrir learns to stay close, and he even finds food laid out for them both in a building marked as an inn.

It is the first time he has smiled here, and his face feel unlike his own for the effort of it. He walks among the buildings, noting their sandstone finishes unworn by weather and the marks above the doorframes, settled into the stone like stains from years ago. It follows the pattern of the ancient human cities, the ones where he had seen so much so long ago, where he had walked through streets at night and visited the faithful in their dreams. The city is built around the palace and the market, though neither is occupied; instead they are overgrown, like someone had drawn the grass through tiles and packed dirt and coaxed it to grow towards him. 

He sees a small man hunched over a table, off to the side and half-sheltered under an archway, like the old men who wait for chess partners in Central Park, and he sits on the other side of the table, making a board appear with a wave of his hand. Fenrir sits at his side and he scratches the dog behind its ears; it lays its head on his lap and sits still, calm.

"Hi Dad," he says, and moves a pawn forward as if an offering, a sacrifice from days gone by. His Father says nothing, but a bishop moves to the edge of the board, lined up to take the pawn. This is how they talk; without words, awaiting the end of time. 

There is silence between them, and Gabriel feels peace.


End file.
